


Frostbitten

by Spoodlemonkey



Series: Inktober/Goretober/Kinktober [24]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Death of an OC, Established Relationship, Horror, M/M, Witchcraft, or an attempt at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: “If we get arrested, I’m blaming you.”“There’s no one here this time of night,” Tom hoists himself easily up onto the wall, biceps straining in his tight white t-shirt and Mike gets lost for a moment in the play of muscles across his shoulders. “Come on, you said you wanted to do something fun for our six months.”





	Frostbitten

**Author's Note:**

> For the past week I've had "it's the most wonderful time of the year" going through my head on repeat- HAPPY OCTOBER! Fall and Halloween and Hockey- I missed it so.  
Unbeta'd and written to Florence and the Machine on repeat all afternoon.  
Let me know what you think!

“If we get arrested, I’m blaming  _ you.”  _ He hisses.

Tom barely glances back at him as he tosses the backpack up and over the ivy covered stone wall. There’s a muffled thump as it lands somewhere on the other side. Mike holds his breath, waiting for the shouting, for someone to have heard them. His heart is racing in his chest, like he’s had too many energy drinks again, chugged them one after another and then hit the ice on brand new skates, his limbs feeling disconnected from the rest of him, uncoordinated. 

“There’s no one here this time of night,” Tom hoists himself easily up onto the wall, biceps straining in his tight white t-shirt and Mike gets lost for a moment in the play of muscles across his shoulders. “Come on, you said you wanted to do something fun for our six months.”

He straddles the wall and holds a hand out. 

Mike hesitates, glancing back down the path they’d come from. It’s dark, the trees blocking out most of the moon overhead. The feeling of being watched sneaks up on him, unbidden. He shivers. 

“I meant like, paintball or something.” Mike grabs the proffered hand and scrambles up onto the wall. Tom helps him get settled then reels him in with a hand bunched in the front of his shirt for a sweet, slow kiss. If it’s intended to help settle his nerves it works, as he eagerly leans into it. 

“We can go paintballing on the weekend,” Tom nips at his lip as he pulls back with the same easy grin that Mike had fallen in love with. “We need the crescent moon for this.”

“I thought these kinds of things happened on the full moon.” They hop off the wall, Tom scooping up his backpack and tossing it over one shoulder, grabbing Mike’s hand with his. 

“Not according to my cousin.” That was where the trouble had started- with Tom’s discovery that his cousin was a self declared witch, and not the pagan, mother nature loving kind. 

The graveyard is silent. Row upon row of tombstones stretch out before them, old, weathered stones that have barely withstood the test of time. It’s too dark to make out any of the worn letters, the names of the people who have been buried here for decades, for centuries. Mike’s never been here at night before. Without the cover of the trees, the crescent moon casts a dim light over them. A few clouds drift lazily across the inky sky, the smog of the city keeping all but the brightest of stars from shining through. 

He pulls out his phone, switching on the flashlight as they stumble their way through the oldest section of the cemetery. He has no idea where he’s going, only knows the briefest details from Tom. Tom, who thought it would be  _ cool _ and  _ romantic _ to perform a ritual instead of celebrating like normal people.

The feeling of being watched intensifies- like the lightest touch of fingers along his spine, cold and featherlite. He looks around, squinting into the darkness but nothing stands out.

Mike shifts closer to Tom instead. 

“This one.” Tom stops abruptly. Mike has to catch himself to keep from tripping over the low, sunken stone marker. He shines his light on it but can’t make out the writing, it’s too worn, too faint. Time hasn’t been kind to it. 

“How do you know?” 

Tom doesn’t answer, untangling his hand from Mikes. He crouches down and opens his backpack, pulling out a handful of thick white candles, a small pouch and a lighter. He gets to work, setting the candles around the stone marker. The lighter flickers to life and soon the immediate area is lit up with a soft glow. Mike stows his phone back in his pocket, anxiety growing stronger and stronger in his chest. Tom stands, the small pouch in hand.

“Okay,” Tom grins over at him. The light from the candles cast wicked shadows across his face, turn his big brown eyes inky black. For one suspended moment Mike is certain he doesn’t know him anymore. “Just have a few words to say and then we get ourselves a real live ghost !”

“Live?” The chirp is second nature even if his heart isn’t in it.

“You know what I mean.” Tom opens the pouch, shaking the contents out into his palm. He awkwardly pulls his phone from his jeans pocket, unlocking it and squinting down at the screen. “Might be easier if you read it while I sprinkle.” He mutters.

Mike takes a quick step back.

_ “Hell no.” _

“Come on, man, we’ve come this far.” Tom tries to coax him into taking the phone. “Best anniversary ever right?”

_ “Wrong.” _ Mike crosses his arms. “This is freaking me out, Tom. Let’s just head  _ home.” _

“Okay, I admit it is a little creepy.” Mike doesn’t back away when Tom takes a step towards him, so he takes another, closing the distance between them. Hands awkwardly clenched around the items in them, he rests the back of his hands on Mike’s shoulders. He leans down, pressing their foreheads together. “You know I’d never let  _ anything _ happen to you.” 

Mike shrugs. Tom’s proximity is working to sway him though, the heat from his body, the sweet coaxing tone he uses.

“Five minutes, I promise.” Tom presses a kiss to his nose, his cheek. “If nothing shows up we can get the hell out of here and I’ll owe you blow jobs for a week.”

Mike perks up a little at the bargain if only because he’s an absolute sucker for what Tom can do with his mouth. Tom, sensing him wavering, ducks in and presses a hard, demanding kiss to his lips. Mike groans into it, lets Tom lick his way in, the kiss hot and wet. His nerves make way for the heat that shoots along his spine, pooling low in his gut with the way Tom presses against him. He tugs Tom closer, his hands splayed wide on Tom’s broad back, rocking against him as lust clouds his vision and replaces the fear that had been behind the racing of his heart.

“Five minutes.” Tom’s voice is  _ wrecked, _ his gaze heated, and that more than anything is why Mike accepts the phone from him. “Shit,” Tom clears his throat. “I think I got some of this stuff on you.”

He brushes Mike’s shoulder and presumably the concoction of herbs he’d managed to spill on him. 

“I swear if that’s weed…”

Tom laughs, sniffing at the remaining herbs in his hand. 

“Nothing like that.” He promises. “Italian seasoning maybe?” 

Mike flips him off, glancing over the words he’s supposed to be reading.

“What is this, Latin?” He has no idea how he’s supposed to read these aloud when he can’t even  _ pronounce it. _

“I think it’s supposed to be Russian. Just try your best.”

Mike bites back the sarcastic rejoinder on the tip of his tongue. Five minutes. Five more minutes and then they can get the hell out of there.

“So, you going to read it then?” 

“Fuck off.” Mike flips him off but goes for it. The words feel weird in his mouth, like he can’t quite wrap his tongue around them. He stutters his way through it as best he can, cheeks flushed at Tom’s quiet chuckles. Tom sprinkles the contents of his hand over the candles, the flames turning from a soft yellow to blue to green and back again. Mike shudders as a strong wind whistles through the graveyard, creeping up and under his shirt and along his spine. 

And then it’s over and it’s silent again. 

He holds his breath, waiting.

The night creeps in on them- the clouds passing over the sliver of moon leaving only the candles for light. Wind stirs up the trees, brushes across the grass and under the hem of his jeans. He shivers at the cool touch. 

His stomach twists, chest tight, too afraid to breathe and break whatever spell has fallen upon them. 

It didn’t work. 

Relief hits him leaving him lightheaded. He sucks in a sharp breath, and then another. It eases some of the tension in his chest, the knots in his stomach.

“Well shit.” Tom takes his phone back, glancing over the text Mike had just read. “I really thought that would work.” 

He actually sounds  _ disappointed. _

“You are never choosing our dates again.” His hands are shaking, he realizes distantly. He crosses his arms, stuffing them under his armpits like the warmth will help. “What the hell did you expect to happen? Breaking into a cemetary in the middle of the night?” 

His tone is sharper than he intends but he can’t seem to soften it. The shaking’s spreading the longer they stand there, his legs feeling loose and weak.

“Hey,” Tom seems to pick up on the fact that Mike is  _ losing it, _ crossing over to him quickly to draw him in to the warmth of his body. “Sorry, sorry- I just thought it would be a cool experience.” 

“You’re such an asshole.” Mike breathes into Tom’s shoulder, pressed as tightly as he can.

He can still feel the phantom sensation of someone watching them, can’t shake it even though he knows it’s only his imagination. 

Tom brushes his fingers along Mike’s shoulders, the back of his neck. He flinches, not expecting the icy touch with the heat the rest of Tom’s body gives off.

“Fuck your hands are cold.” 

“Sorry.” Tom’s hands tighten around Mike’s middle.

Mike’s stomach rolls.

_ “Aww, so cute.”  _ Mike cringes, ripping himself away from the hand teasing the back of his neck. Tom yanks them back, tripping over their bag and swearing. Mike’s heart thunders in his chest and fear clogs his veins. 

Laughter as cold and crisp as the first frost echoes in the night.

A man with silver hair and black eyes grins at them from within the barrier of the candles. Mike can’t help but meet his gaze. He sucks in a sharp breath at what he finds there- the cold, the chaos, an eternity of it promised to him if he just breaks the barrier. He shakes his head, thoughts swirling, caught up in a maelstrom. 

“Who  _ the fuck _ are you?” Tom presses Mike back behind him, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for an attack. “Where did you come from?”

_ “You summon me here.”  _ The man speaks with a thick accent and his smile is gap toothed and wicked. There’s nothing kind about it.  _ “You can call me Sasha.” _

“We didn’t summon shit!” Mike blurts out at the same time Tom asks, “What are you, some kind of ghost then?”

Sasha laughs again and the sound hurts Mike’s ears.

_ “I am very old.” _ His gaze locks on Mike’s. He shrinks back from it, feels like the man can see through him down to his very soul. He feels raw, cracked open and laid bare before him.  _ “And you did summon me.”  _ He plants his feet, arms crossed as he grins his gap toothed smile at them.  _ “So, tell me. What you want? And be quick.” _

“What do we want?” Tom asks.

_ “We make a deal.” _ Sasha splays his hands before him, palm up. The very embodiment of good will. If not for those eyes.  _ “Anything you want. Gold? Vodka? Not women I think.” _ He teases, glancing between the two of them. 

Mike reaches out, fisting his shaking hands in the back of Tom’s shirt.

“This is crazy,” he hisses. Sweat’s beading across his temples, his upper lip. “We should just get the fuck out of here.”

“Hold on,” Tom murmurs and Mike wants to  _ shake _ him. “We can ask for anything?” 

“Tom!” 

_ “Anything.” _ Sasha promises.  _ “But hurry.” _

“Why do we have to hurry?” Tom asks. Mike tugs violently on the back of his shirt but he ignores him. “You on a time limit or something?”

Sasha laughs again and Mike’s stomach threatens to revolt. Bile burns the back of his throat. Above them the moon hasn’t reappeared, completely swallowed up by the dark clouds gathering. The wind picks up, rustling the trees. It sounds like the forest is moaning, terrified by what they’ve brought forth. 

_ “You only summon me.” _ Sasha explains, mischievous.

“Fuck, there’s more than  _ one _ of them?” Mike presses his eyes shut, light headed. “We need to  _ leave now _ Tom!”

“Hey, it’s fine babe.” Tom’s big, warm hands cup his cheeks. His expression is calm when Mike peels his eyes back open but the tremor running through his hands belies how freaked out he really is. “We’ll just, uh, let him go and get out of here, okay?”

“That’s a  _ terrible _ plan.” 

“Hey! Who’s there?” A voice cuts through the night. The beam of a flashlight blinds them momentarily. Mike moans. They’re going to get killed. Or arrested. Or  _ worse. _ “You kids shouldn’t be in here!”

“Fuck.” Tom glances between the cemetery caretaker picking his way across to them, and Mike. “I’ll grab the bag and we’ll run for it, okay?”

“What are you doing?” The caretaker calls out, shouting to be heard above the wind. It’s picked up again, Mike’s shirt buffeted against his body, strong enough to push him into Tom’s grasp. “What the  _ fuck _ did you do to that grave?”

Sasha continues laughing. It grows louder and louder, echoing through the graveyard, mixing with and carried by the wind. Mikes ears are ringing with it, his head throbbing. He claps his hands to his ears, eyes watering. He thinks Tom says something, can see his lips moving but can’t hear him over the sound of the storm.

And then everything stops.

The silence is somehow worse than the storm. The world is muffled, void of sound. Mike concentrates but he can barely hear the sound of his own breathing, the pounding of his heart in his ears.

_ “Is good to see you, lyubov’.” _ Sasha’s voice is like a gunshot, piercing through the heavy stillness. 

_ “Always getting into trouble, Sasha.” _ There’s a man there, with golden hair and a cherubic face. He doesn’t smile but there’s fondness to his voice. 

“Where the  _ fuck _ did he come from?” Everyone looks to the caretaker, gaze wild and grey hair standing on end. He clutches his flashlight in one shaking hand and a bat in the other. His gaze goes to Mike. “What have you  _ done?” _

The golden haired man moves faster than Mike can blink and the caretaker falls to the ground, eyes wide and sightless and neck broken. His flashlight rolls off behind another grave marker and out of sight.

_ “Nicke.”  _ Sasha chides but there’s glee to his voice. Mikes stomach heaves and he’s nearly sick right there. He can feel a scream bubbling up from within his chest.

And then Nicke is before them, one hand wrapped tight around Mike’s throat. This close he can see the same inky blackness of his eyes, the endless depths, the chaos swirling just below the surface. He’s old, older than Mike could ever imagine. Mike’s paralyzed with fear, can barely breath with the hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him up until he’s straining on the tips of his toes to hold his weight.

_ “Break the barrier.” _ Nicke gives the order to Tom who sobs, face ashen, panicked gaze darting to Mike.  _ “Set him free.” _

“T...tom.” Mike gasps and the grip tightens. 

Don’t do it, he wants to say. Don’t set free whatever monster they’d unwittingly summoned into their world. 

Tom scrambles to obey, snuffing the two closest candles with his hands and then tossing them as far as he can into the darkness of the cemetery. 

“Okay! I did it!” He stands back, pleading with Nicke. “Let him go!”

Nicke smiles at Mike, but it’s not pleasant. It’s cold like the fresh ice across a pond and as dangerous as the frozen waters lurking underneath should you find yourself skating on the wrong spot.

His hands on Mike’s throat as just as frigid and as Nicke holds him there it grows worse and worse, the icy cold spreading through Mike’s veins as he screams. The pain is worse than anything he could have imagined. It burns his skin, eats away at his veins, searching deeper and deeper until it’s buried it’s icy fingers deep inside of him, wrapped up around his heart and frozen it solid. 

Distantly, he thinks he hears Tom screaming, begging. 

He’s dropped unceremoniously to the ground like a puppet without a puppeteer. Splayed out on his back he lays there, panting up at the night sky as the moon slowly creeps out from behind the clouds again. 

His chest aches fiercely, throbbing in time with his neck. He reaches a shaking hand up, tracing the sharp icy burn along the side of his neck. It’s a shape, he realizes, a letter maybe.

_ “Been a long time since we have followers.”  _ Mike lets his head loll to the side following Sasha’s voice. He watches, detached, as Nicke reels him in for a kiss, hungry and claiming. It seems to take an eon for them to part.

_ “It’s been a long time since we walked this world, Sasha.” _ Nicke muses. His gaze falls on Mike and Tom, eyes glinting in the fading candlelight.  _ “You will show us this world.” _ He says and Mike shudders. The mark on his neck throbs viciously.  _ “You will be ours. And there will be more.” _

“Mikey,” Tom groans. He drags himself weakly across the dirt, reaching for Mike. He’s pale, as pale as death and his touch is cool where his hands find Mike’s. His eyes widen when he sees Mike’s neck.  _ “Fuck.” _

Mike can see the mirror image seared into the skin of Tom’s neck, red and blue and black like frostbitten skin. He’s never seen it before, but he knows somehow that it’s a letter, that it’s  _ their _ letter. 

That Mike and Tom belong to  _ them _ now.

He lets his eyes fall closed and weeps. Weeps for what they’ve done, for the world.

Weeps for themselves and all they’ve lost.

And Sasha’s laughter echoes in his ears. 


End file.
